


Euphony

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, alternative meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 06:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13630770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: "Nice fiddling, handsome man."





	Euphony

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to resurrect an old tradition of posting a new work on my birthday - happy times for everyone!  
> A while ago, my flatmate finally started reading "Daughter of Smoke and Bone" and laughed long and hard about the line "Nice fiddling, handsome man". Inspiration struck. Eternal thanks to Laini Taylor for including such a perfect chat-up line in her book, it is much appreciated.

_euphony (n)_

_The quality of sounding good or pleasing to the ear_

 

"Nice fiddling, handsome man."  
  
Sherlock froze, bow still raised, violin still resting on his shoulder, the final note he had played still hanging in the air, piercing the noise of the busy train station.  
  
It wasn't the first time someone had tried to chat him up since he had first showed up here two days ago. Under normal circumstances, he would have ignored the comment.  
  
Not this time, though.  
  
This time, there were several unusual factors.  
  
First of all, the words had been spoken with true admiration, though it was unclear if for his playing or his looks. No sarcasm, no provocation, nothing to indicate someone looking for a fight.  
  
This was worthy of note because secondly, they came from a man. In Sherlock's experience, men didn't normally give honest compliments to complete strangers in public places.  
  
The combination of these two factors made him pay attention, made him blink, made him look.  
  
Which led to ...  
  
Thirdly, the man standing several paces away, a large army-green bag at his feet, was a soldier.  
  
That alone would have at least warranted a second look from Sherlock, who had never seen the sense in denying himself anything he actively enjoyed. But a soldier in fatigues with a kind face and kinder words? That was new.  
  
He slowly lowered his violin.  
  
"I suppose you don't get much of either in Afghanistan," he said. "Or in hospital rooms, for that matter."  
  
"How did you-?"  
  
"Your bag has wheels on one side," Sherlock said. "No self-respecting soldier of your statue would walk around dragging a bag if he could carry it. Your hands and face are tanned, too tanned for someone who spent the winter in London, so you've been abroad. Where does a man in fatigues with a tan go that renders him unable to carry a bag and determined to be kinder to strangers? Afghanistan or Iraq but these days Afghanistan is the more likely option."  
  
The soldier stared at him for a couple of seconds, then grinned. "That ... was amazing."  
  
Sherlock blinked, startled. "That's not what people normally say."  
  
"What do people normally say?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Piss off."  
  
The other man laughed. "Right." He glanced around the busy train station and licked his lips. "So what are you doing here, then? Seems to me that someone who can read a person's life story at a glance would find a more lucrative occupation than busking."  
  
"Who says I'm busking?" Sherlock asked, smiling.  
  
"Well, playing the violin in King's Cross was a hint," the soldier said, nodding at Sherlock's open violin case. "And you seem to have been at it for quite some time to get that much money - unless you were stripping at the same time."  
  
To his own surprise, Sherlock snorted a laugh. "Hm, I haven't gotten that desperate. I'm actually trying not to garner too much attention."  
  
The soldier raised his eyebrows. "By playing the violin in a train station. Yes, I can see how that would make you just fade into the crowd."  
  
He glanced around, looked at the ground. "Unless you're trying to make money while also escaping the notice of any orderlies," he mused. "Doesn't look like this is a designated busking area."  
  
"It isn't," Sherlock confirmed. "Didn't pay any fees, either."  
  
"Course not."  
  
"Are you going to rat me out?"  
  
"For playing so beautifully? Nah." Another pause. "I might invite you for a coffee, though."  
  
Sherlock found himself surprised for the second time in five minutes. "Tempting, but I'm afraid I have to stay here." He nodded towards the information desk. "I need to keep an eye on this one."  
  
The other man turned a little, just enough to glance in the direction he had indicated, where a young white man sat behind the information desk, throwing nervous looks at the departure boards.  
  
"Ex-boyfriend?" the soldier asked.  
  
Sherlock snorted. "Fledgling home-grown terrorist. I've been watching him for three days, trying to figure out what the target is."  
  
That earned him a baffled look. "Come again?"  
  
He shrugged. "I told you I wasn't busking ... speaking of, I might take you up on that coffee after all."  
  
Movement had caught his eye and a moment later a man with prematurely grey hair who had been reading a newspaper on one of the nearby benches up to now approached them.  
  
"Nice to see you having a chat but some of us would like a little music for our money," he said.  
  
"Relax, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "It's the 4:35 to Newcastle."  
  
He nodded towards the board. "It has just been announced as being delayed and our friend here looks about to have a stress-induced stroke."  
  
He bent down and carefully put his violin into the case, scooping the coins and bills he had earned into a pouch before closing the lid.  
  
"If you make the calls and have the train stopped and searched before it arrives, we can probably watch him piss himself," he told Lestrade. "Search his locker and check the desk - he's got a second phone glued to the underside and uses that to text his accomplices."  
  
"And what are you going to do?," Lestrade demanded.  
  
Sherlock stood and turned to wink at the soldier standing in front of him. "I'm going to have a coffee."

*****

  
They managed to get a small table for two by the glass wall of one of the many coffee shops in the train station. Sherlock turned his seat a little so he could keep an eye on the reflection of the information desk in the shop walls opposite.  
  
"I'm John, by the way. John Watson," the soldier introduced himself.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said. "And that's very humble of you."  
  
"What is?," John asked.  
  
"Not to introduce yourself as Dr. John Watson," Sherlock told him. "Most people would."  
  
John grinned. "I'm not most people. And how do you know-?"  
  
"Oh please." Sherlock nodded down at the red cross patch stitched to the side of John's bag. "And when I suggested our suspect might have a stroke, you turned and checked him over. Not like a curious bystander but like an expert. You might as well carry a sign saying Army Doctor."  
  
John laughed. "Can't get anything past you, can I?"  
  
"It depends on how hard you try."  
  
That earned him another grin. It looked a little wicked - just enough to make Sherlock wonder how that particular sort of wickedness could be applied. He shivered.  
  
"So ... Sherlock." John said his name as if tasting a strange dish and liking it more than he had expected. "What is it that you do? We've already confirmed busking isn't it, though you could probably make a small fortune with it. You don't look like you're with the police, though, and you certainly didn't act like it."  
  
Sherlock smirked. "Much to Detective Inspector Lestrade's relief, I am very much my own man. I'm a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job."  
  
John nodded, as if inventing your profession was perfectly normal. "And what exactly does that mean?"  
  
"Every time the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." He shrugged. "Burglaries, robberies, kidnappings, murders. Whenever they don't have anything interesting, I take on private clients."  
  
He tilted his head, examining John. "You, on the other hand, were just released from the army hospital. What are you going to do?"  
  
"What, you can't tell?," John asked and it sounded just a little bit bitter.  
  
"The only logical option would be to start working at a local clinic or hospital," Sherlock said. "But I honestly can't see you working in such a place. You're a doctor who went to war. You'd be bored out of your mind within a week at most."  
  
John grimaced. "Bloody true, that. I'll either have to accept my fate or hope against hope for a position in an A&E somewhere."  
  
"Or you could work with me," Sherlock said. The words slipped out before he had time to think about them.  
  
"Beg pardon?"  
  
_'In for a penny..'_ Sherlock thought. "You could work with me."  
  
John laughed. "And do what, exactly? I'm hardly qualified for detective work."  
  
"You're a medical man who is acclimatised to violence," Sherlock pointed out. "You've just spent a good half hour in my company without trying to punch me in the face or getting offended even once. All of these make you perfectly qualified for my kind of work. I can always use an army medic."  
  
"You can?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "Of course. Most criminals get unreasonably angry when you try to arrest them. Or break into their lair. Or both. I get into a lot of fights. Would be nice to have a second set of fists on my side. Or a doctor to fix me up afterwards." He idly examined his knuckles, hoping John would notice the scrabs from his most recent argument with a robber. "And of course there's the murder victims."  
  
John shook his head. "Of course. Murder victims. Sure."  
  
"Some of the Yarders are ... reluctant when it comes to working with me," Sherlock said, masterfully downplaying years of mutual animosity. "Having a medical expert I could trust on hand would be immensely helpful."  
  
That earned him a tilt of the head. "Interesting that you think you could trust me."  
  
Sherlock smiled but before he could reply, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. "Ah."  
  
"Ah?" John echoed.  
  
Sherlock put his phone away again. "My other point is this: where else would you go?"  
  
"Who says I don't have anywhere to go?" John countered.  
  
"Everything about you does," Sherlock said. "But mostly the fact that before you came over to talk to me, you stood staring at the departure boards for almost half an hour, trying to make up your mind about where to go."  
  
"You were watching me?"  
  
"I was watching everyone," Sherlock said. "Someone loitering by the departure boards for half an hour? You might well have been an accomplice biding his time."  
  
John opened his mouth to respond to that but Sherlock went on. "Anyway, you don't have a place to go and you don't have a job and your money is running out. Impossible to live in London on an army pension unless you sleep rough. I can offer you an interesting job where all your skills would be put to good use. We set our own fees for the private clients and I've got my eye on a nice flat. The landlady ows me a favour so together we ought to be able to afford it."  
  
He shut his mouth with a click and realised he had talked more in the past half hour than in the previous entire two days.  
  
"Let me get this right," John said slowly. "You met me half an hour ago and you're offering me a job and a flatshare?"  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Quite so."  
  
"Bit rushed, don't you think?"  
  
"It took me less than two minutes to know more about you than your therapist does," Sherlock pointed out. "Half an hour was plenty of time to make up my mind."  
  
"How do you know I've got a therapist?"  
  
"You went to war and came back injured, of course you have a therapist. Standard procedure. Shoulder, was it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Left one?"  
  
"Lucky guess," John said, grinning.  
  
Sherlock grinned back. "I never guess."  
  
Outside, a large number of police officers hurried past. Sherlock watched in the reflection as the suspect caught sight of them and fell off his chair.  
  
He finished his coffee and stood.  
  
"Come on, then. We can catch a Tube to Baker Street and have a look around the flat."  
  
John jumped to his feet instantly and followed him out.  
  
"So," he said, automatically taking the violin case from him so Sherlock could put on his coat without stopping in his brisk stride, "a job and a flatshare ... anything else you're offering?"  
  
Sherlock accepted his violin back and tilted his head. "For a start. Why?"  
  
"I might have an additional suggestion," John said, a glint in his eye that left no room for misunderstanding.  
  
Sherlock considered this.  
  
An army doctor with adrenalin cravings whom he seemed to get along with like a house on fire and who looked like he had been pulled out of the corner of Sherlock's mind he usually kept under lock and key.  
  
He smiled.  
  
"I am open to negotiations."  
  
THE END.


End file.
